


"I'm Fine"

by ljunattainable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljunattainable/pseuds/ljunattainable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"there’s a mountain of small things now, and Castiel doesn’t know if he’s got the stamina to climb this particular mountain"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> written and published over a few weeks, but now complete. Thanks to all those who commented on the fic while it was in progress and gave me the incentive to keep going during a couple of stalls (especially Snowin_you who commented on almost every chapter).

Castiel sits on the very edge of the chair: perhaps it’s a metaphor. 

His forearms rest on the line of his thighs; his hands hang in front of his knees; his head bows low. 

He wrings his hands, twisting them in and around each other; squeezes the fingers of one hand in the fist made by the other until the bones feel like they might crack and splinter; he picks at the skin by each fingernail, pulls it away and making his flesh bleed, or at least turning it red and raw. 

His gaze is inwards; a million miles inwards. 

He’s done something wrong again; he’s failed to understand the appropriate etiquette; he’s upset someone he hadn’t intended to upset. It’s such a small thing that he’s done; a tiny thing in the scheme of all things, but it is one of many small things that serve to draw his attention to his differentness. He has an inability to interact appropriately with human society and he can see no future time when that will change. 

His apologies, when he tries to make amends, sound weak and desperate, and sometimes false because of it, even though he means them sincerely. The feeling of inadequacy that he’s left with takes away from the few small pleasures he gets from his existence; it coils and wraps around him like a heavy mist and it follows him everywhere. That such a small thing can bother him so much, can rob him of his ability to just get on with other things, important things, makes it worse. It shouldn’t; he should be stronger than that. 

Dean means well but he doesn’t understand. He’ll grin and squeeze Castiel’s shoulder and tell Castiel not to worry; that it doesn’t matter; that it’s a small thing; that he’s good at so many other things that are bigger and that matter more. 

Dean knocks a knuckle on the door now and peers around the frame, his eyebrows drawn together in mild concern.

“Cas, you okay?”

But there’s a mountain of small things now, and Castiel doesn’t know if he’s got the stamina to climb this particular mountain. 

He stands up, dropping his sore and aching hands to his sides; curls his fingers and digs his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms.

“I’m fine.”


	2. Dean

Sam’s in the back of the Impala for a change, so that he can spread the papers he’s reading around him. That leaves Castiel riding shotgun, and Dean glances across at how he sits stiffly, holding his hands in his lap. Cas’s fingers are curled into his fists, out of sight, but Dean sees; he always sees. He sees the raw edges by every one of Cas’s nails where Cas has pulled and bitten at the flesh until it’s sore and bleeds; he sees the small, purple, fingertip-shaped bruises just below Cas’s wrists where he’s gripped and squeezed and twisted too hard in his anxiety. He doesn’t know what Castiel is hiding under the layers of trenchcoat, jacket and shirt and he’s not sure he wants to.

Dean both understands, and he doesn’t; he wants to keep the fuck away from the minefield that is a fallen angel’s depression. And he doesn’t. 

He reaches a hand along the seat and squeezes Cas’ shoulder. 

“You okay?”

Castiel glances briefly at the hand on his shoulder, then over at Dean and he curls the corners of his lips into the tiniest of smiles; it’s enough for now.

“I’m fine, Dean.”


	3. Dean

The hunt doesn’t go that well.

“The hell, Cas? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Dean yells, gripping one of Cas’ elbows to hold him upright.

Cas looks at his feet and sways backwards a little on his heels. Most noticeably, Dean observes, he doesn’t answer the damned question.

Dean stares at him, “Fuck,” Dean breathes out. “You are, aren’t you? You’re an idiot, do you know that?”

“Dean!” Sam hisses loudly, in that pissy, superior way he has that pisses Dean off even when he’s not already pissed off.

Dean whips his head around to face Sam, “What?” he demands.

“It’s fine, Sam,” Castiel says. “Just leave it.” There’s that weary edge again to Cas’ voice that Dean hears all too often. Dean hates it.

“Yeah ...no. No, it’s not fine, Cas. Dean, stop being a dick.”

“When the fuck did this become about me being a dick and not about Cas jumping in front of a fucking werewolf?”

“About the time you yelled at him for saving my life,” Sam says, almost shouting.

“Enough!” Castiel says loudly into the developing row, “Enough,” he repeats much more quietly into the sudden, surprised quiet.

“Cas ...” Dean starts.

Cas brings his head up and stares at Dean. His eyes are old; done; past caring. Dean doesn’t know what else to do but yell. He’s just so worried. He wants to throw things; hug Cas; hit him. Whatever it takes.

Cas pulls his arm out of Dean’s grip, “Can we go now?” 

There’s a line of blood starting to color Cas’ white shirt red along the tear that follows the line of one rib. Cas ignores it and Dean watches it spread, mesmerised. Dean can see Sam in his periphery, waiting for him to say or do something. 

Eventually, Dean sighs, “Yeah. Sure.” He puts his hand out again to take Cas’ arm and for a moment he thinks Cas’ is going to refuse his help. But then Cas stumbles a little closer, intentionally or accidentally, Dean’s not sure; whichever it was, he doesn’t pull away when Dean puts an arm around his back to stop him falling.

“You drive,” Dean says, throwing the car keys to Sam.


	4. Castiel

Dean rides with Castiel in the back seat of the Impala for the first part of the three hour journey back to the bunker. The first aid kit lies between them balanced on the small pile of Castiel’s stripped off shirt and jacket.

Dean’s lips are a thin line of disapproval as he wipes away blood and tapes a temporary dressing over Castiel’s chest, around his side and along his back to where the wound finally comes to an end just under Castiel’s left shoulder-blade.

Castiel fights hard not to flinch and sits in silence through his embarrassment as he’s manipulated this way and that so that Dean can reach the more awkward places.

Every now and again, Dean glances up, “Does that hurt?” Dean asks, shifting his attention briefly from Castiel’s torso to his face for confirmation or denial.

“It’s fine,” Castiel lies.

It does hurt; the wound stings fiercely. But what hurts the worst is that he’s wounded at all; that Dean and Sam are seeing him vulnerable and disadvantaged; that he needs them, when until recently, it was always they ... Dean ... that needed him.

Castiel fell, and apart from his memories and a lingering sixth sense, there’s no angel left in him. Dean doesn’t need him anymore. Castiel isn’t entirely sure why Dean still bothers with him at all.

“That’s it done for now,” Dean declares into the silence. He leans back, looking at his handiwork, “We’ll tidy it up and stitch what we need to when we get back.” 

Castiel notices Sam watching them in the driver’s mirror as Dean picks up Castiel’s jacket and drapes it over his bare shoulders. Sam looks quickly away when he spots Castiel looking back at him. 

“Hey, man. Are you sure you’re okay?” Dean asks gently.

Castiel mentally shakes himself. He feels ashamed that he’s making Sam uncomfortable. Dean too. Feeling useless is one thing; showing it too much is entirely something else. 

He smiles at Dean, and clears his throat so that when he speaks his voice is clear, and even though he speaks quietly, powerful. “I’m fine, Dean. Really. Thank you for this,” he says, waving a hand at himself loosely to encompass the results of the first aid.

Dean looks relieved, relaxes a little beside him and smiles back. 

Dean and Sam don’t need, or want, to know about Castiel’s troubles. That, at least, is something Castiel thinks he can still do.


	5. Sam

Sam’s not stupid. He listens to the occasional muffled sound from the bathroom (“I can manage, Dean, thank you,” Castiel had said to Dean’s obvious disbelief, when they’d got back to the bunker), and he knows full well what Castiel is doing; after all Sam’s been there too, more times than he can count – more times than he can actually remember. The difference is that Sam’s had years of practice hiding his physical and emotional scars from Dean, and he’s a lot better at it than Cas is. 

Castiel has been tiptoeing around them since he moved into the bunker, though when Sam thinks about it (and he has done quite a bit recently), probably since a long time before that. 

They gave Cas his own room, but he spends almost no time there, disappearing into it for the couple of hours sleep he seems to manage each night (Sam’s not sure if that’s all he needs or if it’s simply all he gets), before leaving the room and doing whatever it is he does from 2am until Sam and Dean get up for coffee and breakfast. (Sam got up the first couple of times he heard Castiel in the middle of the night to check he was okay, but Cas had apologized for waking Sam, grabbed a glass of water (which was obviously not what he wanted) and headed back to his room, so Sam leaves him to it now).

Cas leaves his room pristine, as he does anywhere he goes in the bunker, as if he’s never been there. What few possessions he has – toothbrush, a few clothes – an iPad of all things – are stored in a backpack near the front door. He takes things out as he needs them and puts them carefully back when he’s finished with them. Cas’ life is in that backpack and Sam’s seen Dean look at it with something akin to hatred. Castiel may not be able to spread his wings and fly away with a thought any more, but he could still pick up that backpack and leave almost as fast. And if he did, there’d be nothing left in the bunker to say he’d been here at all.

The moment Castiel comes out of the bathroom and realizes that Dean isn’t anywhere to be seen, Sam swears Cas loses about three inches off his six feet height as the tension drops out of his shoulders in one sub-second whoosh. Sam almost laughs because it looks so comical. Almost.

“Sam, I’m sorry to interrupt you but I can’t reach my back. I think ... can you help me, please?” Cas is looking somewhere at a spot over Sam’s shoulder rather than directly at his face, and it’s the only thing that gives away his discomfort. 

“Sure, Cas,” Sam says in a tone that’s aiming for normal and easy and hey, this happens every day.

Sam places a slip of paper to mark his page, and putting his book down on the arm of the chair, he follows Cas back into the bathroom. 

Castiel sits stiffly on the lid of the toilet seat while Sam checks his back. 

“You just need a couple of stitches here,” Sam says. His thumb brushes briefly over the skin just to the right of Cas’ spine, checking how deep the wound is.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, Sam.”

“It’s no trouble. You’d do the same for me, right?” he tries a smile. Cas smiles back. It’s empty and broken and Sam finds himself staring at it, transfixed, until Cas starts to fidget awkwardly. Sam turns his attention back to Castiel’s wound.

Sam’s finishes putting the two stitches into Cas’ back and moves around to check Cas’ chest and side. Cas did an okay job with the places he could reach. It’s not tidy or practiced by any means but it’s going to keep his insides on the inside and that’s the point. Sam pulls a finger lightly over a couple of stitches that are too loose, and ideally Sam would re-do them but Cas is sitting stiff and anxious, conditioned to expect criticism, and Sam is not going to be that person. Sam doesn't know when, or even if, Castiel will pull himself out of his funk. He just knows that he’s going to be there when Cas eventually stops being stubborn, and, well, until then, Sam's going to watch out for him whether he likes it or not. 

Sam pats him lightly on the shoulder, “Good job. We’ll make a hunter of you yet.”

Dean’s back by the time they leave the bathroom, Castiel shucking himself back into a fresh white cotton button-up, taking his time doing up the buttons as they walk, leaving the hem hanging out over his pants.

Dean glances up at the two of them and his eyes narrow in annoyance as he opens his mouth to say something. Sam shoots him a warning glare and Dean’s mouth slams shut. 

It does open again a few seconds later though when Sam and Castiel reach the table, “So, I thought movie night,” Dean says raising a questioning eyebrow at Sam. Sam gives a slight nod of approval. Maybe his brother’s not as ignorant as he sometimes acts.


	6. Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied suicidal thoughts

Castiel can hear them through the wall. Do they think they’re whispering? Hissing voices, supposed to be lowered but raised in argument and disagreement. He puts his elbows on his knees and his hands over his ears and tries, and fails, to shut them out.

“He’s got a fucking death wish, Sam.” 

“It’s not a good idea to leave him here.”

“Do you _want_ him to die?”

“You know that’s a stupid question, right?”

“He needs to get better after the last hunt.”

“He’s not going to buy that. That injury’s no worse than all three of us have hunted with before.”

“It’s a simple salt and burn, Sam. We don’t need him.”

It always comes back to that. The words echo around in Castiel’s skull and he hangs his head in shame. They don’t need him; they don’t want him, he’s a liability and a freeloader. They’re even wasting time now just arguing about him. 

He stands up and walks to the front door and he still can’t escape the voices from the other room.

“He’ll understand. He can do whatever it is he does when he’s slinking around in the middle of the night.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course I know about that, dude. I’m not frigging blind.”

“Yeah. Sorry. But then you know it’s good to bring him with us, right?”

“No. I know it’s good to leave him here. He can heal, and have some real him-time without having to worry about being quiet all the time. It’s fucking creeping me out. Maybe he needs to shout at things and throw things or something.”

Castiel rummages in his backpack and pulls out a sweater and his Glock. He tucks the Glock into the holster on his belt and slips his blade out from its custom-made sheaf down one inside wall of the pack. He opens the front door and walks out into the chill autumn weather. 

It’s pouring with rain; he’s soaked through before he’s even gone a hundred meters, but it’s strangely refreshing. His hair is plastered to his head and water drops from the slightly too long curls to trickle in streams down his face; his sweater gets waterlogged and heavy and his pants are sticking to his legs; his skin itches and chaffs and the temperature is just the wrong side of being comfortable, but he likes being wet and he likes being cold because it makes him feel real.

He walks on a couple of hundred meters, then turns off the road to take a shortcut through a copse of trees heading to the internet café in the nearest town. 

He’ll find a case. That’ll take him to the end of today; maybe, if he’s lucky, to the end of two or three days. It’s beyond him to think further ahead than three days. In fact, three days is scary. Three days is filled with three evenings and three nights. One day. He can make it to the end of one day. He plans it out in his head while he walks. Dean and Sam will probably be gone all night; he doesn’t know where their salt and burn is, but it’s probably an all-nighter, so Castiel doesn’t want to get back to the bunker any earlier than he has to, because it’s empty and too quiet; he can stay at the internet café until eleven PM when it closes and he can watch people come and go if he buys something – coffee or hot chocolate; anything, really; they’re good that way. Maybe someone will talk to him, but if not he can still watch; he’s fascinated, even now. It’s an hour to walk back to the bunker. An hour and a half if he dawdles. The café opens again at seven AM. That’s five hours minimum on his own in the bunker. 

That’s too long. He starts again.


	7. Dean

“He’s not here,” says Dean, storming into the library at a half run.

Sam looks up from his seat at the table where he’s shuffling a few papers together for the trip, “What d’you mean he’s not here? Where is he?”

“Fucked if I know.” Dean sounds angry, but he’s actually shit-scared.

“Did you try looking in –“

“I looked fucking everywhere, Sam. I’m telling you he’s not here.”

“He heard us,” Sam says flatly.

“You think?” Dean snarks back, rubbing a frustrated hand over his hair.

Sam starts to stand up, in a sudden panic, “His pack...?”

“Still here,” Dean says, his voice betraying the depth of his relief over that, at least. “But his gun, knife and that old sweater he’s got are gone.”

“Well, that’s something,” Sam says, huffing a breath out as he sinks back into his seat.

“Yeah – you don’t take a sweater if you’re going to kill yourself, right?”

“Is that what you think? That he’s going to kill himself? I mean I know he’s depressed but ... Jeez, I mean, this is Cas – he’s tough, right? He’ll get over this.”

“He’s not as tough as he pretends to be, Sammy.” Dean says, sitting down opposite his brother, his voice almost cracking. “I know he thinks about it, he told me once. It was a while ago, but I know it’s there – I mean, things are even more fucked up now than they were then.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad. Um, so what are you going to do if you find him?”

“First? Bust his chops for scaring the crap out of me. Second? Fucked if I know. I guess you were right. He’s safer with us than not.” Sam looks thoughtfully at Dean and Dean correctly interprets the expression, “You know where he is,” he says. 

“Not for sure,” says Sam, “But I know where he might be. If I tell you, you’ve got to promise me you’ll go easy on him.”

“Just tell me.”

“Dean... ”

“Just fucking tell me, Sam.”

~~xxx~~

Dean opens the door to the small cafe. There’s a cosy counter in one corner with a professional coffee machine and a selection of what looks like homemade scones, muffins and cookies. There are three narrow benches around the wall, two of which have laptops secured with cables; a few teenagers sit on some scattered soft chairs. There’s no sign of Cas. Dean sighs. Sam was just guessing anyway. 

To be sure, Dean walks across to the weedy guy behind the counter. “Hey,” he greets.

“What can I get you?” 

“Actually, I’m looking for a friend. I just wondered if you’d seen him? Mid-thirties, dark hair, about my height, slim. Wearing a black sweater probably; or a white dress shirt, dark pants.”

“Cas,” the guy says nodding.

“You know him?”

“Sure. He comes in here a fair bit. Not today though. I haven’t seen him. Sorry.”

“Okay, thanks, man,” Dean says. He turns and walks towards the door and wonders what the hell now?

He stands on the street outside the cafe getting wet. Fuck! He doesn’t know why but he’d put all his hopes into Sam’s guess that Cas would be at this fucking cafe and he feels so completely devastated that Cas isn’t here that he can’t even process it, let alone understand it. He should be angry but fuck if he can get there. He rattles the car keys in his hand and takes in a heavy breath. There’s no point hanging around; he just has to have faith that Cas will turn up, will be waiting back at the bunker when they get back from the hunt tomorrow.

He looks left and right to cross the road to the Impala and does a double take when he sees a sodden figure walking up the street towards the cafe. Soaking wet, hands stuffed in pants pockets and looking fucking miserable.

“Cas! Cas!”

Cas lifts his head at the shout and scowls. 

“Dean,” he says when he gets closer, “What are you doing here.”

“I came to get you. Are you coming?”

“Coming where?”

“The hunt, of course... hell, Cas you’re dripping.” Dean casts his eyes worriedly up and down Cas’ shivering figure.

“You don’t need me on the hunt,” Cas says, squinting up at Dean and tilting his head. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, taking half a step closer and putting his hand on Cas’ shoulder, “I might have been wrong about that.”


	8. Sam

Sam can count on the fingers of one hand (okay, maybe two) the number of times in his life that he has found himself conceding his own idiocy (never out loud), but he’s going to have to add this to the list. He probably should have worked it out, but in his defense, he hadn’t known there was anything to work out, after all this is Dean we’re talking about.

Of the three of them, he’s supposed to be the one who’s emotionally mature and in touch with his feelings – and theirs – but in the end it was Dean himself who joined the dots in Sam’s head, for once wearing his heart on his sleeve, and somehow that makes Sam feel worse. 

Dean had dashed out of the bunker pausing only to grab the car keys, when Sam told him where he might find Castiel. He’d had a look on his face that could only be described as hope (right up until the point he caught Sam looking at him). This was not Dean angered and hell bent on tearing Cas a new one (Sam knows what that looks like all too well) and Sam had sat in a stupor for a good fifteen minutes while his thoughts re-orientated themselves around the sudden change in his world view.

By the time Dean had come back with a wet, cold and grumpy Castiel, Sam had catalogued all the things he’d missed, or just plain misunderstood; it all makes perfect sense now. 

Even though Dean marched back into the bunker with his heart firmly back where it belonged, out of sight and out of mind, Sam can’t un-see what he’s seen. Dean’s been taking care of Cas in the only way he knows how and Sam feels guilty for ever thinking otherwise.


	9. Dean

Okay, so Dean might be yelling at Cas to change out of his wet clothes and in to some dry ones, and maybe that’s a dickish thing to do given that Dean’s fairly sure it’s his fault Cas is wet in the first place, but it’s only because he’s concerned, and Cas has known him long enough to be able to work that out by now. Cas is shivering fit to bust a gut and even Sam’s on Dean’s side instead of Cas’s for once, which is actually a bit weird but Dean’s not going to complain. 

“We’re not leaving until you’ve changed, Cas.”

“These clothes are warmer,” Cas says between shivers.

Dean looks at him like he’s grown an extra head, “Not at the moment they’re not. Those clothes are soaking wet and you’re not getting in my car like that.”

“I’ve just been in your – ”

“You’re not getting in my car again,” Dean says, glaring. “Sam, a little help here.”

Sam nods and turns to Castiel, “Dean’s right, Cas,” he shrugs and adds, “It happens occasionally.” 

Sam is smiling up at Cas and the cutting response sitting on the tip of Dean’s tongue is bitten back unsaid, because unbelievably, Cas smiles back. It’s only a slight upward curve of his mouth, but it’s a real smile and not one of those he brings out every now and again when he tries to fool Dean into thinking he’s okay. Cas’s smiles are such a rare thing that for a moment Dean totally forgets what he was doing.

And it seems Cas’s resistance was token at best, anyway, because Dean doesn’t need to pick up yelling where he left off. Castiel nods and pulling some clothes from his backpack he squelches his way in wet socks to his room. Dean follows him, and he tells himself he’s just being practical when he insists on checking that Cas’s werewolf injury is still dry under the dressing and when he throws one of Sam’s huge sweatshirts Cas’s way, because Cas is partly right and the dry clothes aren’t really warm enough for the weather which seems to be getting colder by the minute.

“Dean, I believe I can manage now,” Cas says after a couple of minutes, sounding exasperated and looking at Dean with a curious head tilt.

Dean pauses and considers what he’s doing: trying to pull Cas’s wet socks off his feet and what the hell was he thinking? 

Embarrassed, he shuffles off his knees and onto his feet. “Yeah. Sure. Just hurry it up,” he says, sounding flustered and not cool as he makes a hasty exit from the room.

Unfortunately, things are no less embarrassing when he gets outside Cas’s room because his brother is looking at Dean with a scarily fond expression that Dean’s only seen a couple of times before. 

“What’s up with you?” Dean asks, glancing at his brother.

Sam just shakes his head with a faint smile, “Nothing,” and he picks up Dean’s and his own duffels and heads for the door.

“Sam? Something you want to tell me?”

“Seriously, Dean, it’s nothing,” Sam says, but he’s still smiling. What the hell?


	10. Castiel

The day gets colder and colder as they travel, the rain persists and the Impala’s heating is on the blink again. All three huddle in their jackets and sweaters and the journey seems to take forever.

Castiel spends his time alternating between gazing at the passing scenery and staring blankly at the pages of the book in his lap. Occasionally he catches Dean glancing at him in the driver’s mirror, and he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes and Dean doesn’t smile back. 

He doesn’t want to feel this way, but he can’t help that he does. He can’t even blame it on his new humanity: he’s felt this way for eons, he just didn’t understand that he wasn’t supposed to until recently. Somehow, he’d thought being human would help; give him a framework in which to define himself and offer him a sense of belonging, but it hasn’t. At least as an angel, he had a purpose and a home, even if it wasn’t homely. Now he has nothing and he feels incredibly alone. The only times he doesn’t feel alone is when he’s on his own with Sam or on his own with Dean. When the three of them are together, Castiel feels like he’s an outsider, standing on the periphery of Sam and Dean’s deep family bond. Like now, as Sam and Dean bicker light-heartedly about some film that Castiel has never heard of, but apparently is a classic. Castiel doesn’t understand half of what they’re saying and he can’t join in the conversation, so he sits quiet and stares blankly at the pages of his book.

After three hours they stop at a diner. It’s too late for lunch, and too early for dinner, but they were late setting off and nobody much cares about regular meal times. Dean has a steak and Sam has salad and fries, and Castiel is stuck with pumpkin soup again, which he is learning to actively dislike. Five years of not eating left a mess of his body’s digestive system and he is slowly having to work his way up to solid food again like a newborn. Dean makes porridge for breakfast and soup for dinner sometimes in the bunker. He says he likes it, but Castiel thinks he doesn’t. 

Castiel doesn’t know what it looks like when someone cares about him. He knows what it’s like to be needed, useful, a soldier, a part in a bigger machine. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be wanted, to be taken care of for his own sake. He wishes he knew what it means when Dean makes porridge and soup when Dean clearly doesn’t like it.

Because of the delay it’s late by the time they hit the outskirts of Danesville, their destination. Too late, in fact to do anything about the ghost they’re here to hunt. They hunt down a motel instead.

Castiel doesn’t understand why Dean rejects the first three motels they come to. Dean goes into the reception of each coming out moments later shaking his head. 

When Dean leaves the car and disappears into the fourth motel, Castiel leans forward to the passenger seat, “What’s going on, Sam.”

“Damned if I know, Cas,” says Sam shaking his head and offering Castiel a chip from a bag he’s munching his way through.

Cas shakes his head, no, and then sneezes.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“I’m cold,” Castiel replies. He thinks that’s his first ever sneeze. It’s not very pleasant.

“Yeah, it’s freezing,” agrees Sam. He fishes around in the glove compartment and finding what he’s looking for, turns around and hands Castiel a tissue. “Here, you can wipe your nose on this.”

Castiel takes the tissue but doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know what to do with it. He dabs at his nose. Sam takes another tissue out of the packet. “Like this,” he says, and he shows Castiel what to do as if it’s no bother; Castiel’s grateful but he knows it will embarrass Sam if he’s too effusive so he doesn’t say anything, just nods his thanks.

Dean finally emerges from Pony’s Hill Motel reception dangling a key. By this time Sam’s shivering and Castiel can’t stop his teeth from chattering together between sniffles. He’s on his fifth tissue. 

“Thank God,” Sam mutters climbing out and glaring at his brother. He snatches the key out of Dean’s hand.

Castiel eyes the single key with panic.

“I would prefer my own room,” he says, stepping out from the back of the car.

“It’s all they had, Cas. There must be a convention in town or something,” Dean replies, staring at Castiel and daring him to challenge the blatant lie.

“C’mon, Cas. It’s only one night. At least it’s got heating,” Sam says, opening the trunk roughly to grab the bags, his irritation clear in every exaggerated movement. 

One night, thinks Cas, still panicking as he follows Dean and Sam towards the room. He just won’t sleep, rather than risk the nightmares. Dean needs his four hours. Castiel’s heard it enough times during the time he’s known Dean. Castiel’s lucky if he gets two. He wouldn’t sleep at all if he could get away with it. He doesn’t want Dean and Sam to know about the nightmares. Like he doesn’t want them to know that some days all he wants to do is to crawl in a corner and hide, that most days he has to force himself to eat, that occasionally he has to force himself to talk. That he wants to throw things and break things and sometimes the only thing available and handy to break is himself. 

So for one night he won’t sleep – because he fell, but Sam and Dean don’t need to know how far.

They make Castiel take the first shower – something about colds and hot water. It’s quick because Castiel knows what happens when he uses up all the hot water. He takes off the dressing over the wound on his chest and back and decides it can stay off; the wound’s clean and scarred over and healing. He does a few stretches to make sure and it pulls and pinches but it doesn’t split and he’s got the full movement of his muscles. He puts on a long sleeved tee shirt (that he thinks used to be Dean’s but he’s lost track of who owned what of the hand-me-downs he inherited) and he puts his pants back on because he’s not going to sleep. 

He tries very hard not to sleep. He stays up with Sam making hex bags until Sam declares himself exhausted and falls into his bed, literally asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. He leans against the headboard of his bed trying to watch TV as Dean flicks through the channels - an activity that Castiel finds highly frustrating; he’s just got interested in one thing that’s on the screen when Dean flicks to another channel. He rolls to face the wall and picks up his book. He’s so tired he can’t focus on the words that line the pages. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

But he remembers the nightmares; he always remembers the nightmares. They come every night and every night he wakes with tear tracks down his face and his sheets and blankets in disarray or lying on the floor where he’s apparently thrown them. 

Tonight, Castiel’s eyes snap open at the feel of a warm touch on his back, Dean’s loose fist between his shoulder blades, over his spine. The tell tale damp feeling is on his cheeks and his blankets are bunched and twisted around his hips. He doesn’t know what to do. Instinct tells him to jerk away but he’s cold and the hand is warm. Dean’s hand starts rubbing his back tentatively, nervously in small circles through his t-shirt. He finds he wants to lean into it but he daren’t because he doesn’t understand what it means.


	11. Dean

Cas hardly sleeps, hardly eats – some days, he hardly talks. He throws himself into hunts with reckless abandon and only admits to his injuries when he can’t successfully hide them. Cas never mentions anything about how he’s doing, good or bad, and Dean knows from experience there’s no point in asking; so Dean feels perfectly entitled to lie, cheat and con in order to find out what the fuck’s going on.

Last night, in all honesty, he had felt a bit of a dick for dragging Sam and Cas around half of Danesville in the freezing cold just to find a motel that had a room with three beds, but now, watching the steady rise and fall of Cas’s back as he sleeps in the next bed, not so much. Not that it hadn’t been incredibly frigging awkward at first, but Dean’s definitely counting it as a win.

Sam stirs across the room and Dean’s head whips around. Sam’s arms appear in a languid stretch from under the blankets and Dean’s up and across the room (impressing himself with his stealth ninja skills) and slamming a hand over Sam’s mouth before he’s has a chance to wake up properly.

Sam’s eyes shoot open instantly. He slides a hand under his pillow, raises an eyebrow and nods slightly under Dean’s hand to show he gets it.

Dean nods back and releases his hand, making a shh-ing motion with his fingers on his lips and then pointing to Cas’s bed. 

Dean only just manages to get his hand back over Sam’s mouth before the disbelieving snort escapes. Dean can feel Sam’s breath on his palm as he laughs and he gives Sam a warning glare. Sam’s hand appears from under his pillow with an arsenal of knives and holy water and salt. He drops them beside him on the comforter, unneeded.

~~xxx~~

“So, you didn’t want to wake your boyfriend,” Sam says when Cas is in the diner’s restrooms.

Dean looks up from his paper. Sam’s laughing again. 

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean scowls back. “You know he needs all the sleep he can get.”

“I do. I just think it’s kinda sweet.”

“It’s just practical. He’s no use to us if he’s dead on his feet.”

“Sure, Dean, I get that. It’s still kinda sweet though.”

Dean picks up a toothpick and flicks it across the table at Sam, but his heart isn’t in it. Dean’s in too good a mood and it’s going to take more than Sam’s teasing to change that. Obviously, he and Cas aren’t talking about the back rubbing and for that, Dean is eternally grateful. God knows the damage that information would do in Sam’s hands.

Even so, when Cas comes back and orders scrambled eggs instead of oatmeal for breakfast Dean turns into a frigging Mom, smiling proudly like his kid just graduated. 

~~xxx~~

The hunt is frigging hilarious - no seriously.

There’s some little old lady ghost haunting a tea cup of all things and scaring the bejesus out of a bunch of other little old ladies quietly having their afternoon scones. Sam, Dean and Cas stick out like a sore thumb in the quaint tea-rooms, though the waitress (only slightly younger than the clientele) takes a liking to Cas that has Cas confused and Dean and Sam grinning from ear to ear.

“I don’t understand why that waitress keeps trying to give me cake,” Cas says leaning forward conspiratorially, before sneezing loudly against his coat sleeve.

“She thinks you look pathetic, probably. All skinny and tired and diseased. It’s her mothering instinct kicking in. I don’t know why you bring that out in people,” Dean says, handing Cas another tissue and ignoring Sam’s hand darting up to his face to hide his snigger. “See if you can get her to bring you some pie”.

“I’ll try,” Cas says doubtfully, “But I – “

Cas is cut off by the rattling tea cup across the tea room.

“We’re on,” Sam says, standing up, then ducking quickly as a saucer spins lethally his way from the stacks of crockery in an old dresser.

The group of older men and women at the next table start shrieking as more and more crockery gets picked up and thrown around the tea-room. The waitress hides under a table as if she’s seen it all before, which of course, she has. She makes an abortive attempt to pull Cas under with her ‘to protect her’ and the horrified look on Cas’s face has Dean fighting down an unmanly and totally inappropriate fit of giggles.

Sam meanwhile has grabbed the tea cup that first rattled and has become the target for all the crockery so Dean supposes he’d better give him a hand. Cas gets there first.

“I can see her,” Cas says, squinting, “In that corner.”

Dean can’t see anything but he trusts Cas. “Then go get her,” he says and turns to help Sam fight off the attack of the crockery.

“How the hell do we burn a tea cup?” Dean asks his brother, holding up a chair to fend off the flying missiles.

“Crematorium?”

Cas does an effective swipe with his iron crowbar and the mid-air crockery drops to the floor all at once and smashes.

Dean yells out into the sudden silence, “Cas! Crematorium. C’mon, before she’s back.”

It’s like a three stooges sketch. The car’s swerving all over the road as the haunted tea cup occasionally escapes from Sam’s supposedly vice-like grip (and Dean’s going to have serious words with his brother over his inability to hold on to a frigging tea cup) and flies around the inside of the car. Cas gives mini-swipes of his crowbar, with Dean and Sam ducking out of the way, and frequent frustrated grunts of “Stay still, woman!” At one point Cas gives a spectacularly agile lunge and ends up with his torso bent over the back of the front seat, his ass in Dean’s cheek and his face in Sam’s crotch.

They arrive at the crematorium that way, falling over each other clambering out of the car, Dean and Sam both carrying the tea cup into the building while Cas gives a good impression of a mad swordsman fighting an invisible foe. When they’ve finally wrestled the damned tea cup in to the crematorium’s furnace, and seen a satisfying flash of little old lady sent on her merry way, Dean drops his hands to his knees and looks up at Sam and Cas, “Fucking hell.”

Sam laughs and after a moment Dean joins in. Cas smiles and Dean claps him on the shoulder. Today is indeed a good day.


	12. Sam

Sam leans over and grabs a handful of Cas’s fries from his plate. 

“Would you like my French fries, Sam?”

“Only if you don’t want them,” says Sam, knowing that Castiel isn’t going to eat them, even though Sam had been hopeful when he’d made them. Castiel slides his plate Sam’s way, leaving it between them so that he can continue to pick at his steamed fish.

It's just them in the bunker for the next few hours while Dean is two towns over getting some supplies in.

“I found a series of sigils today that I don’t understand,” says Sam, through a mouthful of fries and salad, “But they’re new, not old. They were on a news feed; in the background.”

“We should check them,” Castiel says without very much enthusiasm. He picks up a little row of vitamin pills from a small plate and grimacing in distaste he swallows them with a large mouthful of water. 

“Do you think ... well, do you think they might be the angels? Trying to get home, maybe?” Sam asks.

Cas sneezes and pulls a tissue from the box. He shivers in his thick black sweater and Sam’s not sure if it’s from the cold he picked up or from the thought of his fallen brethren. “It’s possible,” Cas says eventually, laying his fork down neatly on his plate. 

Sam grabs another handful of fries and looks Cas over. He’s by no means well, but he’s eating a little better, he slept through until morning again last night and he seems to be pleased that he hasn’t been left to his own devices the last few days (which is not accidental, but Cas doesn’t need to know that). Mind you, he’s got a stinker of a cold that Sam totally blames on Dean. 

Sam licks the salt off his fingers. “How’s the werewolf scratch?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“The stitches probably need to come out.”

“I took them out yesterday.”

Sam winces. That had to hurt. They weren’t exactly in easy-to-reach places. “Can I check?”

“No.”

Sam hadn’t really expected anything else.

Sam swallows the last of his burger and Cas’s fries and he’s keen to check the sigils straight away, happy to leave the dishes until later tonight or even until tomorrow, but Castiel wants to tidy away straight away in his almost compulsive need to leave no signs of his life in the bunker, so they do, Sam washing and Cas drying. The silence isn’t quite companionable but it’s not uncomfortable either. 

Sam wonders whether this is as good a time as he’s likely to get to broach Castiel’s depression with the ex-angel himself. Cas has had a few good days since they got back from Danesville on Tuesday, but Sam knows it probably won’t last; knows these things go up and down, with no real reason. This might be his only chance for a while.

Sam clears his throat, “So, how are you feeling, Cas?”

“Fine,” Castiel says not pausing or looking up from his task; not, in fact, putting any thought into the answer.

“No, really, how are you feeling? ‘Cause you know, you’ve been a bit down.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, pausing in his task.

“What for?”

Castiel creases his brow and squints at the kitchen counter, “Isn’t that the right thing to say?”

“Depends,” says Sam slowly, not sure what he’s let himself in for, “Whether you’ve done anything to be sorry for. Have you?”

“I don’t know. It seems safer to say I’m sorry if I have nothing to be sorry for, than not to say I’m sorry if I do have something to be sorry for.” Castiel sniffs back against his runny nose and Sam absent-mindedly passes him the tissue box.

“We’re a little worried about you,” Sam blurts out and that hadn’t been what he’d intended to say at all.

“Why?” asks Castiel tilting his head and frowning, but still not looking at Sam, “I told you, I’m fine.”

Sam looks across at Castiel for a moment in silence, pondering what will get Cas to open up a little, then says, “Why don’t you move your bag into your room?” It’s more a suggestion than a question and he’s not sure why that’s the question, of all the questions, he chose to ask, but it suddenly seems important, as if it’s at the core of the issue.

“My room?”

“Yeah, your room. Wait. You do know it’s your room, right?” Sam stares wide-eyed at Castiel. “You didn’t,” he says quietly. “What did you think?”

Castiel hesitates before answering, “I thought you and Dean were offering me a place to sleep,” he says eventually.

“Cas,” says Sam, placing his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and not pulling it away when Castiel tries to draw back. “It’s yours. This is your home and that is your room.” 

~~xxx~~

Dean gets back while Cas and Sam are translating the sigils and trying to work out what they mean. Sam hears him come in and drop something heavy on to the floor. Then the yelling starts.

“What the ... Sam, where the fuck? Where is he? His bag’s gone and – ” Dean bursts into the library, dread on his face and fear in his eyes, abruptly cutting himself off, skidding to a suddenly silent halt when he sees Sam and Cas sitting there.

“Cas!”

“Dean.” Castiel is half out of his seat, his hands bunching in to fists, ready to fight. “What’s wrong?”

Sam places a hand on Cas’s forearm to let him know to stand down. 

“Cas put his bag in his room,” Sam says carefully.

Dean’s eyebrows lift and Sam nods. “That’s ... good,” Dean says, letting out a long breath, and growing an awed smile, “Yeah, that’s good.”


	13. Castiel

Castiel was horrified and confused the first time it had happened; surprised and confused the second time; and now, the third time, he’s grateful but still, ultimately, confused.

Dean’s hand on his back is sure and confident in a way it hasn’t been either time before, both in its movements and, it seems to Castiel, in its right to be there at all. The heel of Dean’s wrist pushes gently into Castiel’s spine in small circles and Dean’s thumb eases out a knot that lies hard and stiff in the muscles between Castiel’s shoulder blades. 

Tonight Dean murmurs to Castiel as he fusses, and that’s new. “You’re shivering,” Dean says, his voice low and admonishing as he pulls Castiel’s blankets back on to the bed and tucks them in close around Castiel’s legs and waist and almost up to his shoulders. “That cold’s just gonna get worse,” Dean worries quietly as he flattens his palm and wraps his hand softly around the lightly fevered skin at the back of Castiel’s neck. “I think this is helping, but you’d tell me if it isn’t, right?” Dean says softly as his knuckles gently meander up and down the knobs of Castiel’s spine

Although the last is a question, Castiel knows Dean doesn’t expect an answer. Though he would answer, willingly; yes. Yes it is helping, though he’s not sure why or how.

Like the previous times, he lies still, gets sleepy warm again in the blankets Dean’s re-wrapped him in, feels the salty damp pull the skin on his face tight as it dries, lets the soothing motion of Dean’s hand on his back banish the nightmares far enough that he’s lulled back into sleep. Like the previous times, he doesn’t wake again until it’s nearly dawn. Like last night, he’s alone when he wakes and for some reason that Castiel can’t explain, that hurts, but he’s grateful for anything he gets and knows that to want more is simply selfish.

He curls on his side in the bed and pulls the blankets up to his neck, tucking his head into the pillow to get more comfortable, holding a clean tissue against his nose trying not to irritate the skin where it’s dry and sore from all the sneezing and nose-wiping. Dean brought electric radiators home with him last night and installed them in all of their bedrooms before they went to bed. It stops the room from freezing but it’s still cool enough to need the blankets and he huddles into the dark cocoon that they make around him.

After a while he works up the energy to start thinking about the day. He has plans. He hates having plans; it’s like a commitment and commitments are hard. Promises are hard. But he promised. He promised he’d go with Sam and disable the sigils because the sigils are dangerous left as they are. He works up the energy to get up and out of the blankets. He sits on the edge of the bed for a while thinking about getting dressed. He hears footsteps in the hallway. They pause briefly outside his room and then continue past heading away in the direction of the kitchen. He sighs and stands up. He walks over to his backpack and pulls out some clean clothes, leaves his feet bare, and grabs a towel. He takes out a comb. Combs his hair roughly, puts the comb experimentally on the dresser; takes a step away from it; looks at it sitting on the dresser; tries to imagine that it belongs there – on his dresser, in his room. He takes a step back towards it, picks it up and puts it back in his backpack. Maybe tomorrow.

He showers and joins Sam and Dean for breakfast because that’s what normal people do. Like the previous times, they don’t talk about Dean’s night visits to Castiel’s room, and although Castiel has questions, Castiel won’t ask unless Dean first offers to answer; that seems unlikely.

They head out an hour later. It’s a day trip this time, though a long one. A five hour drive to the east. Castiel gets to ride in the front – “near the heater”, Dean says. Dean fixed it three days ago after they got back from Danesville and it blows out dry heat that Castiel finds more uncomfortable than the cold. He rests his forehead against the cool of the side window and shuts his eyes.

“Cas, you okay?”

Castiel sighs, quietly under his breath, and sits up. “I’m fine,” he says. 

Dean glances over the back to where Sam is dozing and lowers his voice, “I know you’re not fine, you know. But it’s okay not to be fine.”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

“Sure you are, buddy,” Dean says with something strangely fond in his voice that reminds Castiel of last night, and along with the memories, it brings back that warm, safe feeling.

~~xxx~~

Ten minutes from their destination, Dean pulls the car over and swivels around in his seat so that he can see both Castiel and Sam. “What’s the plan?”

“We don’t think we can erase the sigils because they’re painted on to the walls,” Sam says, “but Cas can paint on extra symbols that will make them useless.”

“What do they do, anyway?” Dean asks.

“They’re summoning sigils, though I don’t recognize what it is that they’re summoning,” Castiel says, “But I am fairly certain it’s nothing good.”

“Are we going to get accused of vandalism?”

“Probably,” Sam says.

“Just so I know who I’m supposed to be running from this time,” Dean says. He turns back around to face the road and puts the car into drive, “Up and at ‘em.”

~~xxx~~

Castiel walks around the sigils, checking them again from close quarters, making sure he hadn’t missed anything in the prints that Sam had. He tilts his head and leans in close; some of the sigils look incomplete, in particular those that identify the thing to be summoned. 

“We good to go?” Sam asks. Sam hands Castiel a spray paint can.

“I guess we are,” Castiel says burying his niggling doubts. He takes the spray can and starts painting. Sam stands off to one side watching for any passers-by that might spot them while Dean comes up beside Castiel and watches while he paints, occasionally asking questions about what something means.

“This will be the last one,” Castiel says turning sideways starting to paint the simple final line as he glances sideways at Dean, fascinated in fact, by Dean’s fascination at what he’s doing. That’s why he doesn’t see it straight away and why it’s suddenly too late to stop it. 

The lines of the sigil are glowing bright, intense blue – all of them; the visible ones that were there before; the new ones that Castiel has just painted; and the invisible ones that Castiel didn’t see but suspected were missing. 

The lines Castiel has just drawn haven’t neutralized the sigils – they’ve completed them.

Castiel grabs Dean’s forearm and pulls him back as the sigils spark and fizz. Sam turns around at the sound of crackling that starts quiet but gets louder and louder. Little electrical bolts start to arc from one side of the sigil to the other, charging the very air around them.

“It was a trap!” Castiel yells over the growing din. “A trap for the fallen angels.” 

He starts pushing Dean to one side, out of the direct line of fire. Their hands grasp at each other’s clothes as they scrabble backwards. The electrical bolts get bigger and dart out towards them, and they move faster. Castiel glances across at Sam, happy to see he’s out of the danger zone; but he and Dean aren’t by a long shot. Another bolt shoots out towards them and Castiel pulls them both back and it only barely doesn’t reach them. They trip over their own feet in their struggle to get away. Another bolt sparks out and hurtles towards them, towards Dean. Castiel pulls at Dean, and loses his footing, can’t get enough purchase to pull Dean back and out of the way, “Dean! No” he yells in horror and lurches sideways and throws his weight at Dean, twisting himself around in front of Dean as they fall.


	14. Dean

“Cas! No!” Dean yells as he falls under Cas’s weight and the bolt of blue lightning hits them and sends them flying backwards in a tumble of limbs and sparks. Dean’s head feels like it’s exploding and his skin feels like it’s on fire, his muscles seize up and he clings onto Cas’s sweater, bringing Cas down on top of him; he starts to lose touch with the world around him and he tries desperately to cling to consciousness as his vision fades to black, and he passes out.

~~xxx~~

Dean comes to suddenly; one second not aware of anything, the next aware of everything. There’s muffled, desperate sounds off to his right – fabric shifting and ripping, intermingled with heavy breathing, but unfortunately instantly returning memories don’t lead to instantly obedient muscles and an attempt to open his eyes and twist to see what’s happening is a non-starter.

“Cas?” he groans, his panic rising with his inability to figure out what the hell’s going on.

“Dean,” Sam says; he sounds out of breath and his voice aches as if he’s in pain, “You’re okay, I think. Just lie still though. You got a hell of a shock.” 

“Sam, you okay?” Dean asks, worried, and wishes his muscles would work. He moves his arm. Thank God.

“I’m okay, Dean. Just lie still, and give it a couple of minutes.”

“The Sigils?” Dean asks, curling his fingers and toes, forcing them to move.

“They cut off as soon as – ,” Sam says, his voice coming to a sudden halt and cracking a little in a way that just adds to Dean’s panic. The muffled, desperate noises come back, clearer now, and consisting mainly of heavy, even huffs of breath.

“What about Cas?” 

There’s no answer this time. Dean opens his eyes and experimentally brings his arm up over his torso. Much better. He rolls to his right.

“Oh, God, no,” he whispers, and Sam turns his head to look at him.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam says, tears on his cheeks. 

Cas’s sweater and shirt are cut away and Sam’s clenched hands pump against Cas’s bare chest at the end of outstretched arms with locked elbows. Sam stops pumping and leans forward, grips Cas’s nose between forefinger and thumb, tips his head back and breathes into his mouth; once, twice, three, four, five times.

“No, no, no, no,” Dean says, over and over and over as he drags himself up onto his hands and knees and crawls the couple of meters across the gravel to Cas and Sam. 

“Cas, no, don’t do this to me. Don’t. Just don’t, please Cas,” Dean takes Cas’s hand; he’s warm, he can’t be dead. 

Dean reaches fingers out to Cas’s face, trails fingertips over his skin. “Don’t give in you bastard. Don’t,” he yells, “Don’t you dare.” Dean drops his forehead to Cas’s, lowers his voice to a whisper, “Don’t die, don’t. You don’t get to take the easy route.”

“Dean. _Dean_ ,” Sam’s insistent voice pushes through Dean’s grief. He lifts his head. “Help me out here - breathe for him.”

Dean nods, grips Cas’s head, and as his brother stops pressing against Cas’s chest, Dean leans in and breathes into Cas’s lungs, unevenly at first, his own breath catching in his throat, then more assured.

Five minutes. Five minutes they go at it, pumping and breathing, until Sam grabs Dean’s arm, “Stop.”

“What? no. We’re not stopping.”

“No Dean, I mean stop … feel that,” and Sam takes Dean’s hand and places it on Cas’s chest. Dean waits; then there it is – a hesitant heartbeat. A fucking heartbeat. 

Dean lets out a single, involuntary, choked sob, reaches out and pulls Cas roughly up against his chest and holds him there, one hand still on Cas’s ribcage, feeling every tentative beat of Cas’s heart and every ragged breath he takes. 

Sam crouches next to him, puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes, “We need to get him out of here.” 

By rights, they should probably take Cas to a hospital but Dean hates hospitals unless they’re absolutely essential. Not to mention they’d whisk Cas away somewhere only family can visit and that’s not going to happen. So, they drive back to the bunker, which perhaps isn’t sensible but it feels right. Cas is bundled up on the back seat in jackets and towels and whatever else they can find in the trunk and Sam sits with him while Dean drives because five hours staring at an unconscious Castiel, and feeling completely and utterly useless, is going to turn Dean into a complete wreck.

He’s in a bad enough state in any case by the time they finally reach the bunker.

“Shouldn’t he be awake by now?” Dean asks, as he carries a chair in from his room so he can sit by Castiel’s bed. He picks up Castiel’s hand and checks the pulse in his wrist for the tenth time since they got home, before tucking it back under the blankets.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, shrugging and running his hand through his hair, looking worried.

“Yeah … look, Sammy – go to bed. It’s nearly two. I’ve got this,” Dean says, sitting down heavily in the chair.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay, well I’ll come spell you in a few hours.”

“Sure,” Dean says, though there’s no way he’s leaving Castiel’s bedside until the guy wakes up, given that he still needs to yell at him for throwing himself in the way of the damned thing that’s trying to kill them – again.

“You are a frigging selfish bastard, you know that,” Dean mutters, after Sam has left. 

He pulls Castiel’s hand out from under the blankets and just lets it sit in his palm for a moment before wrapping his fingers around it. “D’you ever even think about how I’m gonna feel? If you succeed in fucking killing yourself?” He lifts Castiel’s hand up to his face and kisses the back of it. “’Cause I’m gonna feel like crap, just so you know. And I’m gonna be so pissed with you. You think I get pissed now? Believe me, you haven’t seen anything yet.” 

Dean pauses and glares at Cas. “What gives you the right to lie there looking so fucking peaceful? Wake up.” Dean waits. Cas doesn’t wake up. Of course he doesn’t. 

“I had something I was going to tell you tonight, you know?” Dean says, accusing. “Well, ask you really, I suppose. And do you know how fucking hard that was for me? To decide to do that? No, of course you don’t.” He pokes Castiel aggressively in the shoulder and Castiel groans.

Dean’s up and hovering over the bed in a second, upturning the chair in his haste. “Cas? Cas, I was joking, I’m not gonna be pissed. Are you awake?” Dean waits anxiously for a moment, but Cas just lies there, silent again. “Of course you’re frigging not.” Dean glances at the fallen chair and sits on the edge of the bed instead. “I dunno why I’m talking to you, you can’t hear me, can you?” 

Dean huffs. “Actually, maybe that’s the point.” Dean reaches his free hand up and runs fingers through Cas’s hair. “So,” he says taking a deep breath, “here’s the thing, Cas – ”

“Dean?”

Frigging typical. _Now_ he wakes up.


	15. Castiel

Chapter 15: Castiel

Castiel aches all over; his joints feel as if they are only vaguely connected to each other and his muscles are no more than gelatinous blobs loosely holding him together. Every time Castiel tries to move, his body is wracked with violent tremors and Dean grips his hand tighter and mutters to him with critical words (“If it hurts to move then don’t fucking move, Cas.”) that don’t match his anxious tone. 

“There will be more sigils. We have to find them,” Castiel croaks out urgently through an over-dry throat, in a voice even he doesn’t recognize as his own, “Or at least warn the other angels.” He tries to lever himself up and throws his head back onto the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth together, as his body shudders its objection.

“Will you lie still, for fuck’s sake,” Dean says, flinging an arm across Castiel’s chest effectively pinning him to the bed, “We will, I promise, but you have to promise to lie still first; just until this passes. Enough is enough Cas. I nearly fucking lost you and I can’t … I need you.”

“You don’t need me any more Dean,” Castiel says, as he gets his breath back.

“Let me be the judge of that.” Dean shuffles further onto Castiel’s bed, “Let’s do this slowly, shall we?”

“I don’t – ” 

“Get you sitting up, so that you can save the world quicker,” Dean clarifies.

“You don’t approve,” Castiel says.

“I’m all for saving the world, Cas, you know that, but there’s some prices I’m just not prepared to pay anymore.” Dean shifts around so that he can wrap an arm around Castiel’s far shoulder and starts to ease him up, a little at a time, wedging Castiel between the headboard and his chest as he does so. Castiel stiffens briefly in protest, but Dean’s hands are firm and patient and not letting him go that easily and Castiel allows himself to be manhandled up to sitting.

They stay like that for what seems a very long time, waiting for Castiel’s body to catch up with his intent. At the point where Castiel starts feeling comfortable, he panics; because he not only wants the comfort Dean offers, he needs it, and need is bad because need leads to disappointment and desperation and although he’s fallen a long way, there are still places left to fall. Castiel pushes his hand against Dean’s chest to lever himself away, feels his breath coming out in shorter, sharper puffs as Dean’s arm around his shoulders resists at first, then he takes a longer breath in relief as Dean lets him go. His body still feels like disobedient jelly, but the only reaction it makes to his sudden movements is to tremble lightly and briefly.

“You okay?” Dean asks. 

“I believe so,” Castiel says, because physically, he seems to be or will be soon. “Thank you, Dean. You’re a good friend.”

Dean casts his eyes down, and chews the inside of his lip and Castiel can’t believe that that was the wrong thing to say, but apparently it was. “Dean, I’m sorry, what did – ”

“Actually, Cas, here’s the thing – I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” Dean says in a rush and Castiel involuntarily jerks back on the bed in dread, because for all the uncertainty and the disagreements and misunderstandings and plain confusion that sums up his life with Dean, it’s all he has.

Castiel’s not even aware that he’s wringing his hands, squeezing and twisting them, until Dean stops him, an alarmed look on his face. “Cas - stop.” Dean takes both of Castiel’s hand’s in his own, “Jeez. Fuck. I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry, man. I mean I don’t want to be your friend because I want to be more than friends, Cas. Shit, you’re worse at this than I am.” 

Castiel’s no less confused than he was before and he fidgets when Dean won’t give him his hands back. Dean rolls his eyes in the way Dean does whenever Castiel fails to understand what he’s referring to and that doesn’t help because it rarely comes with an explanation and Castiel sorely needs an explanation because he’s balancing on a very delicate edge here; to lose Dean would be something there would be no coming back from.

“Romantically,” Dean adds helpfully in obvious exasperation.

Castiel squints, tilts his head and stares at Dean. “That’s ridiculous,” he says and Dean flinches. “Why? I’m useless, I’m human, I’m bad luck, I’m weak compared to you and Sam, I will be hunted by my brothers, I caused the fall of Heaven – more than once – I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve you, I – ”

Dean reaches out with both arms, wraps them tight around Castiel’s shoulders and back, pulls him in close to his body and squeezes Castiel painfully tight, “Shut up, Cas. Just shut up.”

Castiel shuts up. After a minute of silence, Dean pulls back and lets Castiel go slowly as if he might fall. And he might, Castiel thinks, into a place he hadn’t even thought of.

“So, what do you say?” Dean asks, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and it takes Castiel by surprise when he realizes that Dean is nervous.

“I should probably think about it,” Castiel says uncertainly, not sure if that’s the right response, but he’s fairly positive he saw it in a movie once.

“Oh, yeah. Of course,” Dean says, backing off the bed in haste, “Makes sense. Yeah, you do that.”

There’s a brief uncomfortable silence, then Dean reaches out a hand to Castiel, “In the meantime, now you’ve stopped shaking, let’s go kick some ass, and help some fallen angels not get ganked.”

~~xxx~~

They’ve been up an hour, when Sam joins them, grinning widely when he sees Castiel. “Cas. Man, am I glad to see you,” Sam says coming over and crouching down beside where Castiel lies on the couch. “Are you okay?”

“He’s been better,” Dean grumbles from his seat.

“I’m fine, Sam,” Castiel says, ignoring Dean, “Just tired.”

“And sore, and he can’t even walk to the bathroom on his own, and every time he sneezes his whole body seizes up, but yeah he’s fine.”

Sam gives him a conspiratorial grin and stands up, “Do you need anything?”

Castiel nods, “Actually, yes. I need you to write something in Enochian; an advertisement for the newspapers.” He grimaces and looks in disdain at the pencil he can’t seem to hold steady in his hand and the resulting attempts at writing Enochian script that are sprawled around the couch.

Sam picks up one of the bits of paper. “What’s it say?” Sam turns the paper one-eighty degrees, “Or rather, what’s it supposed to say?”

“It’s a warning to the fallen angels,” Castiel says. “Dean has found over a hundred of the sigil traps, not only in America but all over the Earth and those are just the obvious ones. We don’t have a hope of disabling them all. I thought we should do the ones we could, but, well, Dean was against it.” The argument had been heated and had led to Dean’s current mood and Castiel had neither the desire nor the energy to re-kindle it.

“It’s too dangerous,” Dean says, stretching in his chair, “I’ll get breakfast. You two nerds can do the ad.” He stands up and walks towards the kitchen.

Castiel watches Dean with more interest than he would have previously, trying to work out if he’s attracted to Dean in a romantic way. Although he told Dean he’d think about it, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be thinking about. Still, he does owe it to Dean to try.

“Sam, before we start, can I ask you something?” he says earnestly.

~~xxx~~

“Sam says –”

“Oh, God, please tell me you didn’t talk to Sam,” Dean says, dropping his face into his hands.

“Sorry,” says Castiel, “Was that wrong?”

“Fuck, Cas. This is kind of personal you know.” Dean lifts his head up and Castiel notices his cheeks are flushed a little in embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, … I guess … what did he say?”

“He said,” Castiel starts slowly, “that sometimes, when someone a person cares about gets hurt – that when they nearly die, like I did – that person might get confused about his feelings for that someone.” Castiel watches Dean’s face carefully, for Dean’s reaction.

“Bullshit,” Dean says. 

“That’s wrong?”

“Of course it’s wrong. Well, maybe sometimes it’s right, but not for us. Not for you and me. I’d already decided I … you know … I was already gonna tell you before you nearly got yourself fucking killed – and I still haven’t forgiven you for that, by the way.”

“If it’s any consolation Sam thinks we’ll make ‘a cute couple’. I’m quoting.”

“Oh, God. My life is over.” Castiel hopes Dean is joking.

~~xxx~~

Castiel stares blankly at the Enochian Sam has written out for a long time. It’s ridiculous that angels are forced to communicate by such primitive means and he wonders if any of the fallen angels will see any of the advertisements; if any of them will think to read a newspaper.

“Cas?” Sam fidgets next to him. “Are they okay? I can re-do them if they’re not.”

He startles out of his inner worries. “They’re fine, Sam. I just … I just wish I could do more.” He looks up at his friend. “Will you come with me tomorrow to disable the closer sigils? I can’t do it on my own because they will always be activated by my presence and I won’t survive.”

“Won’t they try to kill us too? Dean was right in the firing line of the last one.”

“Only because he was standing next to me. Normally a human wouldn’t set it off. It’ll be safe, I guarantee.”

“Then of course, I’ll go, but you do know that Dean will go with you.”

Castiel shakes his head, “He won’t. He doesn’t approve.”

“He doesn’t approve because he’s worried about you, but you’ll be surprised. Ask him again.”

Castiel asks Dean while Sam is busy emailing the image of the Enochian ad to a large selection of paper and online international news organizations via a complicating source masking algorithm set up by Charlie.

“If you’re frigging determined to frigging kill yourself then of course I’m going with you. Someone’s got to look after your sorry ass,” Dean says illogically, once Castiel explains that there’s no risk of either of them dying this time.

Castiel watches Sam smirk, and tries to analyze Dean’s change of mind. He doesn’t think he should ask Sam again. He’s not sure that the advice he got last time was particularly helpful.

~~xxx~~

Dean makes soup for lunch, with bread that he puts at the bottom of Castiel’s bowl so that it goes soft. Castiel stares at it, and thinks about all the times Dean has made him soup since he fell.

“Cas? Everything okay?”

“What will happen if I say no?” Castiel asks Dean.

Dean looks upset. “Are you going to say no?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says honestly.

Dean wipes his hand over his face, looks down at his toes then up to Castiel, meets Castiel’s eyes steadfastly with his own. “If you say no, we’ll still be friends,” Dean says, “But just so you know – I will never stop feeling this way about you.”

~~xxx~~

That night, Castiel doesn’t want to sleep; the nightmares will come and he thinks that Dean won’t; not with where they are at the moment in their current limbo, albeit a limbo of Castiel’s making. Of course, it’s a forlorn hope and he falls asleep on the couch.

He wakes up in his own bed, Dean’s hand rubbing his back while the tangled blankets are pulled back up and over him.

“What? You thought I wouldn’t come?” Dean asks quietly. “You’re still my friend, Cas. I’ll always come if you need me.” 

Castiel rolls over onto his back, and he looks up at Dean for a long time.

“You’re kinda creeping me out, Cas - go back to sleep,” Dean says after a while, pulling his face into a small, concerned frown.

Castiel reaches a hand up to touch Dean’s face. Dean stiffens. Castiel traces cold fingertips across Dean’s warmer skin, along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, down his chest, where he splays his hand out flat, feeling the beat of Dean’s heart through his tee-shirt. 

“Cas …?” Dean gasps out his name as a question.

“I’m not fine, Dean. I’m a long way from fine,” Castiel says.

“I know, Cas. But we’ll work it out together.”

Castiel tilts his head on the pillow and even though it’s a promise of sorts, and he’s terrified, he says clearly, “Stay with me.”

Dean's face splits slowly into a surprised grin. Eyes wide and pleased, he leans down and over Castiel and kisses him. Castiel lifts his head up into the kiss. It’s both generous and hungry and it makes heat pool low in Castiel’s gut and he realizes he does know what it’s like to have someone care about him after all.


End file.
